


beneath me

by jonphaedrus



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: (digs myself a grave and lays down in it), Bottom Dom, Canon Disabled Character, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Riding, Service Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 14:56:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8718226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonphaedrus/pseuds/jonphaedrus
Summary: Given his druthers, Clarus is sure that his King would rather be on top, riding his cock. But his knees and his back aren’t what they used to be, and neither one of them wants to risk it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> (thinks about regis/clarus) (shoves several cotton bolls in my mouth and screams at the top of my lungs)

Given his druthers, Clarus is sure that his King would rather be on top, riding his cock. But his knees and his back aren’t what they used to be, and neither one of them wants to risk it.

“Fuck,” Regis hisses between his teeth, arthritic knuckles gone white as he clenches the pillow under his head, face tilted back and eyes tight shut. He’s biting his lower lip, and strands of grey hair are plastered to his face with sweat.

Clarus eases the last inch home, and the other man’s brow softens, smooths. He breathes out a shaking breath, and presses his face back into the pillow, and Clarus runs his fingers over the back of Regis’ neck, thumb and palm fitting along the curves of his vertebrae, presses on the knots at the base of his skull. He combs his fingertips through his king’s hair, now thin and grey with age, and leans forward as best he can to kiss the top of one shoulderblade, not jarring Regis’ hips where his cock is trapped against the sheets. “All right?” His voice comes out shakier than he would like to admit, and Regis hums, warm with affection.

“I’ll be fine in a moment.” He laughs, drily, and after a second rolls up onto his forearms, leonine head hung forward from his slim, hunched shoulders. “This used to be so much easier.”

He’s lost so much weight, these past few months. Clarus can count his ribs now. It makes him terrified, in a way that he can’t articulate. Is it worth Insomnia, for this? ( _It is._ ) But he still tucks his fingers between them, pulls Regis closer until his chest is pressed against his king’s back, hears him sigh, and smiles. “We should have taken more advantage of our youth,” Clarus muses, as he lets Regis set the pace, with one hand tight on his hip. He goes slow at first, shallow, barely pulling out. It’s the right thing, and his king relaxes into the sheets. Clarus can’t stop touching him; his ravaged hip, his thinning too-soft hair, the hunched knot of his bad shoulder. “Done this every night.” Regis laughs again, smiles, cracks one eye and looks back at him with a flush on his knife-edge cheekbones.

“What, and just done it with Cid sitting on the other side of the fire?” Clarus feels like he’s probably doing something wrong if Regis is still this coherent, but then again, he was always the one to lose his words first. A king’s power is as much in his silver tongue as it is in his sword, and Regis is blessed with both.

Figuratively, and literally.

“Would he have cared?” Clarus muses, and Regis laughs again, tugging imperiously on his hip to hurry him. The other man is shifting on the sheets, and Clarus lifts his hips slightly, bracketing his king’s bird-narrow hips with his hands and tucking one knee under Regis so he doesn’t have to put so much weight on his bad leg, which is flat and taking as little weight as possible. “I guess he could get tired of hearing you moan my name.”

Regis smothers his grin in the pillow. “You have that the wrong way around.” As if to emphasise his point, he tightens, and Clarus pauses with a hiss, rocking balls-deep in his king, words choked off at the hilt in his throat. For a moment he’s overwhelmed utterly, bending forward flat over the other man, kissing his shoulderblade, the side of his neck, against the bottom of his hairline. “Clarus,” Regis whispers, nails digging into his thigh. There’s something cracking in his voice. “Clarus, please.”

“I know.” _Frantic_ isn’t a word that could be applied to this. Oh, Clarus knows that Regis can take more—he knows that he is nowhere near as frail as he plays himself up to be, but the thought of Regis being confined to bed because of too much fucking leaves him feeling ill with worry. But his king has commanded, and he must obey.

He picks up the pace, bending further over Regis, hands wrapped around his hips as a hold, and as sweat drips out of his hairline as he gasps for ragged breath and fucks Regis into the mattress, the king moaning raggedly into his pillow to muffle it, beautiful hair plastered to his neck and face with sweat. Clarus can tell he’s hit home by the way the other man’s voice will hitch and he’ll tense vice-tight around him with a whine, so tight Clarus has to pause until he loosens again.

“Just like that,” Regis commands, low voice rough and deep. “Fuck,” he moans when Clarus ploughs into him, holding his breath with effort. “Yes, Clarus, love, my love, just like that.” He misses the days when Regis could ride his cock, hazel eyes as bright as the moon and dark hair still-short and falling into his eyes. He misses how Regis would press hands on his chest, wrap them around his neck, and make Clarus beg for it.

“Please,” he hardly feels he’s speaking. All he can focus on is the almost-beatific expression on his king’s face, the soft shattering at the corner of his eyes, the tense anguish in his mouth. “Please, please. You feel so good.” He’s never felt anything better; never in his life. Nobody, nothing, has ever been as good as it is when he’s here. “Regis, you’re so perfect—stars,” Regis hisses between moans, and stills him with a flex of his fingers.

“Wait.” Clarus waits. He freezes where he is, and he understands as Regis starts to shift what he wants, and almost pulls back. “Don’t—“ he doesn’t, stays where he is as Regis slowly turns over, the friction almost agonising, and then presses one thin-fingered hand to Clarus’ chest.

There are marks on his cheek from the pillow fabric, his eyes like the depths of a storm. His hair is an absolute ruin, falling around his face and neck, sticking to his chin, knotted and splayed on the pillow and as bright as fine-veined silver. His cheeks are flushed red, and his lips are parted as he gasps for breath. The rise and fall of his chest is rapid, and his cock is hard, the head red and dripping into the hair at the base.

“This is a bad idea,” Clarus gets halfway through warning, before Regis has pushed hard on his chest, and he wants to deny it more. “Regis, please—your leg—“

“Hush,” Regis murmurs, and presses Clarus back to the bed, rolling with him. They somehow stay together, and the fact of it makes Clarus’ head spin as Regis finally pushes him down to the sheets and sinks the last half an inch impossibly further onto his cock.

The breath all goes out of Clarus’ chest in a rush, and he’s left mindless with it. Regis over him is something beyond this world, an apparition of power and silver and steel. He’s favouring his bad leg, and Clarus bends his knees to give the other man leverage, lifts Regis up with the unbent muscles in his arms to let his king ride him rather than hurt his knee more. His gasps sound ragged and ruined to his own ears, and he has to close his eyes for a moment when Regis cries out, chin pressed to his chest and teeth bared, Clarus biting the inside of his own lip near to bleeding to keep from coming then and there.

“Don’t.” Regis commands. So Clarus doesn’t. He just holds on and dizzies with what Regis looks like. His king, above him, brilliant and beautiful and all the things Clarus wants and loves in the world.

“Regis, please, you’ll—stars, you’re so beautiful, I can’t—“ he’s babbling. He knows he’s babbling. He’s begging, and Regis is riding his cock like tomorrow he’ll never be able to again, savouring every inch and sighing on each downstroke. “Your leg, sir—“

“My leg will live.” Regis reminds him, bends forward at the waist. Their faces are half a foot apart, maybe, and Regis smiles, gentle. “It is worth it.” Clarus sobs, claws at Regis’ hips, leans up on his elbows to meet the other man in the middle, disentangles the fingers of one hand to grab at the back of his neck, drag him into the kiss. Regis allows it, hands splayed on either side of his face on the bedspread, bites at his lower lip, noses bumping as he keeps going _agonisingly_ slowly.

Regis nudges his other hand over, and Clarus takes his king’s cock in hand, strokes the base, thumb grinding into the slit. There’s no way to stroke in time with Regis’ motions; he’s too slow, too gentle. Instead he goes for something else, something odd and awkward and all the better for it, kissing the other man like he’ll die if he doesn’t.

“Please,” Clarus begs, when Regis has fucked himself to overstimulated tears and paused, trembling all over, at the edge of orgasm, thrice. Clarus feels like he might faint. “Please, love, please, I love you, please, Regis—“ and he chokes off a moan of the king’s name, his given name, the man he fell in love with forty years before when the crown hadn’t darkened his brow and he still was as brilliant as the sun-soaked clouds, as Regis murmurs he can, he can, and Clarus comes without even knowing he does, all white-heat and the audible beat of his pulse in his throat.

He watches, shaking still, as Regis comes apart moments after him with a breathy broken moan, his too-thin body trembling with the force of it, the salt of his sweat and his tears dripping down his cheeks to drop onto Clarus’ face. “Clarus,” Regis whispers as he comes, “Clarus, gods,” smiling and in tears, and Clarus feels fit to burst, his heart too large and in his throat, thumb brushing the tears off of the other man’s cheek as he shudders through it, moaning broken and low in his throat, their foreheads pressed tight enough to bruising.

Afterward, Regis shakes. His voice cracks in pain as Clarus carefully, too carefully, helps him roll over, the king clutching at his bad knee, hissing between his teeth in pain. He’s majestic still like this, come on his stomach and between his thighs bright against the black sheets, sweat cooling and drying on his pale, scarred skin, and in agony for it all. “I told you it was a bad idea,” Clarus murmurs, still panting for breath.

Regis murmurs something unkind and uncouth, and Clarus laughs as he fumbles on the bedside table for a cloth. He wipes the other man off slow and careful, Regis relaxing with every catching breath in his lungs, until he’s supine on the bed, hands folded in the dip just below his ribcage, his breath slowing. Clarus, slowly, warms his hands with the king’s gift of Fire, until they’re hot beneath the skin and nothing more. He’s been using Regis’ magic for years, and its all-too-easy to heat the ruined, twisted muscles of his leg like this. He massages the knots out of his king’s muscles, and watches as Regis relaxes with each motion, until he’s smiling, his body’s tension relaxed and soft.

When he’s done, Clarus lays Regis’ leg gently out along the bedsheets, finds a knot at his ankle, and gently digs his thumb in. Regis seems to be more himself, away from the haze of orgasm and pain with it, and Clarus can feel the other man rubbing fingers behind his ear, through his short hair. “You cut it this morning?” He nods as Regis strokes the strands backwards. “Come here.”

To be ordered by his king is the highlight of his life; Clarus could never say no.

He lays down, as asked, and smiles.


End file.
